


Woven In The Pattern Of Her Destiny

by Tamburlaine_the_great



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Compliant, Friendship, Gen, Gender Expectations, Military Training, Pre-Canon, Rohan, owes nothing to the films
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:54:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26346673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamburlaine_the_great/pseuds/Tamburlaine_the_great
Summary: Éowyn had known the marshal for a little more than seven years, since he had been for that time in charge of the garrison at Edoras, and she liked and trusted him. Although always courteous, he rarely acknowledged her particularly as a woman, which she appreciated. She had often thought that his clear eyes saw a great deal more than he ever spoke of: more than her brother did, for Éomer was more often away in the East-mark than he was in Edoras, particularly in the last couple of years. Her brother had not had to see Théoden’s continuous degradation and suffer the lingering glances of Wormtongue, whereas Elfhelm had seen these things daily.
Relationships: Éowyn & Elfhelm
Comments: 10
Kudos: 14





	1. Forelithe 3013, Edoras

**Author's Note:**

> "...There seemed to be some understanding between Dernhelm and Elfhelm, the Marshal who commanded the _éored_ in which they were riding... (Lord of the Rings, Return of the King, chapter 5).
> 
> This is my attempt at showing how that might have come about.

Flushed with pleasure and pride in her new sword, a gift from her cousin Théodred, she almost ran down the steps to the courts of Edoras, and then to the training ground. She knew she should have sent a message first, but the day was fine and she’d wanted to escape the all-too proprietary glance of the king’s chief councillor, Gríma. The young Riders were having lessons on foot, she saw, sparring in pairs with wooden swords, and her heart leapt to see the clash of arms.

The marshal Elfhelm was standing at the fence, arms folded, closely watching his young charges, occasionally speaking to the instructors. He had been appointed marshal at Edoras the previous year and seemed, she thought, almost intimidatingly competent. He did not have Éomer’s knack of obtaining his men’s love, nor Théodred’s for instinctive loyalty, but nevertheless had inspired their respect quickly after his promotion. He glanced aside as Éowyn gradually came to a halt beside him. He bowed his head. “Lady,” he said, politely.

“May I join them?” she asked.

He surveyed her – and that was a completely different regard compared to Gríma’s, she realised – noting the borrowed mail and leather breeches, and the tight grasp of the new sword. He adjusted the mail coat so that it sat better over her shoulders, and handed her a helm from the few still in the basket. She thanked him, and he nodded. He beckoned over one of the young Riders, a lad of maybe sixteen years and about her height. “Fréalaf, you can spar with Dernhelm here. Leave your sword here for now,” he added to her. The marshal was from the Eastemnet and still had the accent of the east in his speech, unlike most in Meduseld.

She wondered, as she climbed over the fence, whether anyone was fooled by the man’s name she had adopted. Women could and did wield sword and spear and bow, though not many of them had the time or inclination to learn and practise, so she was not that unusual, even if nearly everyone thought that the king’s sister-daughter ought to spend her days in more womanly pursuits.

She grasped the wooden sword and faced her opponent. She knew Fréalaf by sight but not by name, and so did not know if he was a good or poor swordsman. She feinted with the sword and, slow to react, he allowed her to land a hard blow on his arm. Déor shouted instructions and scorn. Fréalaf flushed, and brought up his shield properly. As their bout progressed, Éowyn could tell that she was faster, allowing her to land more hits, and making him more frustrated. Eventually, Elfhelm called a halt, and all the trainee Riders stood to attention, relieved and panting, bodies aching with effort and bruises. He spoke briefly, and Éowyn noted that, even as he pointed out faults and told them the many ways they would get themselves killed as a result, he yet encouraged them all to improve. Within herself Éowyn felt inspired to do better, work harder. He dismissed them to the noon meal, but said briefly, “Dernhelm, stay a while.”

Éowyn nodded, and watched as the marshal settled his own helm over his long, pale hair, and tossed her sword to her. She caught it, and unsheathed its gleaming new blade. He did not pick up a shield, but drew his own sword. She had sparred with Elfhelm before, though never with steel. He was taller than she, though not as tall as Éomer, and since he was only a couple of years younger than Théodred, had at least fifteen years of experience as a Rider, so she was aware that he never used his full strength against her. At least he did spar with her, which Théodred and Éomer did no longer, since however encouraging they’d been to a child were less so now that she was seventeen, and a woman. Théodred had actually said that he was afraid of hurting her, when she would have taken that as a compliment. She knew she would always be weaker than most men, but if she was never able to fight against them, how would she gain a true knowledge of her own capabilities?

Very soon she was made aware of the additional weight of the sword, so that Elfhelm had to do very little to defend himself against her strikes. She was grateful that they were alone, not being overlooked by other trainees.

“Use the shield,” he said, infuriatingly not sounding even a little out of breath. “In battle the longer you engage the quicker you tire.”

She managed to land a hit on his sword arm, though not enough to draw blood. “Better,” he said. “Use your feet.” He switched his sword to his left hand. Immediately she could tell that this was his stronger hand, and although he was not trying to strike her, there were moments where she, unbalanced, left her guard open, and felt the blade touch lightly in what, if they were fighting for real, would be a maiming or killing blow.

At length, he called a halt, and she closed her eyes, frustrated and annoyed with herself. “You need to build up some more muscle for that sword,” he said, sheathing his own blade with the ease of long familiarity, and pulling off his helm. “Come every morning to practise.”

Éowyn took off her helm and followed him over the fence. “Why do you not fight always with the left hand?” she asked, curiously.

“In a shield wall, every soldier must face the same way, or risk wounding his neighbours. A left-handed swordsman must thus learn to fight with the right hand. Once separated, out in the field, of course, it is possible to switch hands, but it must be done quickly or else risk exposure to the enemy.”

She nodded understanding. “Is it difficult to learn to use the other hand?”

He shrugged. “It takes time, yes.” He held out his hand for the helm, which she handed to him. He hesitated, as if about to say something else, but evidently changed his mind, bowed, and merely bade her farewell and a good afternoon.

She made her way back up the hill to the hall, changed her clothes and went in late to the midday meal.


	2. Astron 3015, Edoras

Although several female relatives and waiting ladies had tried with varying degrees of success to teach her embroidery, her attempts could at best be described as painstaking, and at the age of sixteen she had declared that rather than waste more cloth and thread with her clumsy efforts, she would concentrate her efforts on weaving. She had her loom set up in one of the porches where the light was good, and even enjoyed creating patterns from the different yarns and colours. With plain linen, however, she had no need to pay close attention and so let her mind wander to other things, usually combat and horses.

She was feeding in a new thread, frowning over her work, when she was aware that someone was watching her. It was the uneasy prickle of dislike she usually felt when Gríma was present, but he would be with the king, surely. She looked up, and clenched her hands, for it was indeed the king’s councillor. There was a smile on his face, but Éowyn distrusted his smooth looks and smoother talk. His face was pale, like something that had grown in the dark, and his carefully combed hair was more brown than fair. His dark, hooded eyes were impenetrable, guarding the thoughts behind them.

She almost wished her brother was in Edoras, but he was riding with Théodred in the Westfold. In any case he was easily angered by Gríma’s suavity and she did not want him provoked into striking the older man.

She nodded politely to the councillor, and then, less politely, asked what he wanted. He came into the room as if her words had been an invitation, and said, “This is no work for you, Lady Éowyn – any cottager can weave such cloth.” His long fingers delicately touched the fabric spread out on the warp threads: his skin was soft and white as a lady’s, finer than hers, and she wondered if he had ever held a sword or spear in those fine hands.

“Linen is always needed,” she said curtly.

He was well-dressed as always, today in dark red velvet embroidered with trailing leaves and flowers, a belt of linked gold set with red gemstones, and beautiful soft leather boots. A man’s interest in dress was not necessarily a bad thing, she reminded herself; but the belt looked costly.

“Indeed, but not from your hands, surely? A noble lady such as yourself should weave only the finest of cloth for the king himself.” He left unspoken, but the implication was there in his tone, that the finest of cloth should also be available to the king’s councillors.

She could not frame words to reply. She did not want to be courteous, since he would take that as further invitation, and yet she could not be rude to him, so much her elder and so trusted by the king. So she was silent, and she thought that pleased him.

He inspected the room as though he had every right to be there, fingering the skeins of yarn and the bolts of cloth which were lying ready for use. She tried to go on with her work, but it was impossible with him treading soft-footedly about the place. Then she felt, with a shiver of horror, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders. Her muscles tensed and she wanted to jump up out of her seat, but she was trapped by the loom.

A cough came from the doorway, and Gríma stepped back, abruptly, hiding his hands swiftly behind his back. “What are you doing here?” he asked, sounding less controlled than usual.

The man at the door ignored his question. “Lady,” he said, and bowed. Éowyn rose to her feet, inexpressibly glad to see the marshal Elfhelm.

“Please excuse us,” she said, and made a few steps towards the door. Gríma, taking the hint, but not too graciously, preceded her out of the doorway, ostentatiously avoiding Elfhelm’s mud-spattered garments which smelled strongly of horse. Indeed, the marshal was a great contrast in all respects to the councillor.

She did not thank him for rescuing her from an unwanted situation, too ashamed that she had needed it to feel grateful. “The Second Marshal wanted you to have a horse,” he said without preamble, “and charged me with selecting a mount for you, lady. I have brought her now from the Eastemnet if you wish to see her.”

“I would,” she replied, eagerly.

They descended the steps from the hall and through the courts to the stables. In a fair stall was a tall, iron-grey mare with a long dark tail and loose mane. She was no woman’s gentle and fine-boned mount, but was strong and proud, and would carry any Rider long leagues through the Riddermark and beyond.

Eagerly, Éowyn gave her hands for the horse to smell, and, on being accepted, stroked the soft nose and gleaming hide.

“I see I chose well,” Elfhelm said, sounding amused. She turned, having forgotten his presence, and saw him leaning on the wall of the adjacent stall where a big blue roan was stabled. Unlike Gríma, his smile was in his eyes, not on his lips, and was a good deal kinder.

“I thank you. I guess that if my cousin had made the choice it would not have been this beast but one smaller and trained differently.” Théodred was, she thought, becoming influenced into thinking that the king’s sister-daughter should behave with more grace and gentleness and that his cousin’s delight in arms was unsuitable in her position.

He shrugged. “Windfola is trained as a Rider’s mount. I know not if you will need such in the days to come, but it seems to me wise. My family have long bred and trained horses. My sister trained Windfola.”

“Indeed? Wherefore did you come to be a Rider?”

“I was always a better rider than trainer,” he said, wryly. “Besides, they needed me not – I have a sister and two brothers, all older than I, who work with my father and mother.” He paused, then added, “Do you wish to try her paces?”

“I do indeed. But I am not dressed for riding.” She gestured down at her willow-green gown expressively.

“Very well. I will saddle up and bring her to the fountain for you, lady.”

Éowyn bowed her head in thanks, and ran back to the hall eagerly. In her chamber she put on her riding gear and boots, and dashed out again. Quick as she had been, she found Elfhelm waiting at the foot of the steps holding Windfola and his own Gúthlan, and listening to one of the hall’s guards.

She checked the girths and took the reins from the marshal, then mounted up and settled herself in the saddle. She did not need to shorten or lengthen the stirrup leathers. She glanced across at Elfhelm. He nodded, and followed her down the hill to the open gates. On the open grassland beside the Snowbourn, she could let her troubles lie unheeded back in Edoras and simply enjoy Windfola’s smooth pace and turn of speed. They soon outdistanced Elfhelm, but when she slowed her mount and tried some of the usual cues to see how the mare would side-step or rear, he cantered up, not looking annoyed in any way. But then, she thought, he was unlikely to show her any exasperation if he felt any – he was no lord with position to match hers.

He put them both through the whole series of movements, and nodded in approbation at the end of them. “Good,” he said. “I will have no fear for you on Windfola’s back. You should practise the spear with her, and wear armour, so that you are both accustomed to the weight.”

She glanced at him narrowly. “I appreciate your advice,” she said, slowly, “though I am surprised that you give it.”

“Whatever Gríma and his ilk say, there is likely to be war soon with the Black Land. Orcs cross the Anduin and raid the herds of the Eastemnet, taking always the black horses, and their raids are becoming more frequent, not less. Mundburg is being pressed more and more from the east, and there is still an ancient oath binding the Riddermark to Gondor. There is no help from the west – Saruman will not give us aid from Orthanc against the Dunlendings. Every Rider, and every man – or woman – who can bear arms will be needed, I think.” Elfhelm’s voice was grim.

She looked east, but the sun was shining on the grasslands of Rohan, and there was no more darkness over the River than anywhere else. Her heart lifted a little to think of deeds of valour and the songs that might be sung, not overly dismayed by the marshal’s words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Second Marshal is Théodred. 
> 
> Elfhelm's explanation of why he is a Rider owes something to Mathin's, in Robin McKinley's _The Blue Sword_.


	3. Halimath 3016, Eastfold

She was aware that Elfhelm could have sent her back to Edoras with a detachment of Riders after her routine visit to Aldburg, made to check that all was well there while Éomer was in the Westfold, and not allowed her to continue with them further east. So she would not complain about her aching muscles after so long in the saddle and force him to reconsider his decision. But she was having to clench her teeth and defiantly not think about how much longer they would ride today. Since there was no Marshal set over the Eastfold, Elfhelm had taken the opportunity to check the state of readiness of the camp on the border and to speak with the beacon-keepers on the Halifirien. Whatever news he had got from them he had not shared, but he had sent out scouts towards the Entwash soon afterwards.

They had left the Firienwood that morning and were traversing the western bank of the Mering Stream, traditional border between the Riddermark and its more powerful neighbour. The region was well called the Fenmarch, she thought, as she followed the single file of Riders in their twisting path amongst the many pools and meandering streams. Their pace was slow but steady, and there was no back-tracking or long pauses, so she concluded Elfhelm knew the way well.

Presently, the ground rose a little, and they had come to a cleared space ringed with alders where the riders ahead of her were dismounting and preparing to camp for the night. Wearily and thankfully she slid from Windfola’s back and unloaded her pack, then unsaddled and unbridled the mare, stroking her nose and thanking her for carrying her so well. She joined the other men at the fire and gratefully took a bowl of cooked grains and smoked fish. They were quiet and deferential towards her in her own guise, not addressing remarks to her as they would have done to Dernhelm.

She had almost finished eating when the Rider on her right rose to his feet with a soft groan of breath, as if he too were weary, and another man subsided to the ground in his place. Elfhelm sat up straight and apparently unwearied, but his gaze was unfocussed and his very pale grey eyes looked golden in the fire’s glow, and he was frowning.

“What worries you, Marshal?” she asked, quietly.

For a long moment she was not certain that he would answer, but then he turned his head to glance at her. “Orcs. Maybe. The men of Gondor at the Halifirien were unable to give any precise information. But – it troubles me that any orcs should come this far into the Mark so far south – for there are few horses grazing here.”

“Do you wish to send me home to Edoras?”

“No. You are safer here among us than riding across the Eastfold. But you may tell me honestly: if it comes to a fight, can I trust you to play your part?”

She almost burst out indignantly that of course he might rely on her, but then realised that neither she nor Elfhelm had yet seen her proved in battle, and he must have seen young Riders tested. “You know my skill as well as any man,” she said, instead. “I think I have the mettle for a fight.”

He nodded. “Good. Let us hope that we need not put that to the test.”

They talked of indifferent matters thereafter, about the fens and the Eastemnet, which he knew well and she did not, of healing herbs and the places where they grew, then (and his interest in this amused and surprised her) of cooking and how merely a few sprigs of thyme or watercress could make much tastier a dull meal cooked on a campfire. His knowledge of healing herbs tended more towards those which would aid the binding and healing of wounds, whereas hers was more for the relief of headaches and fevers; even so, he asked interested questions about how one would prepare such things, and nodded frowningly as though committing her answers to memory.

Presently, he got up and bid her goodnight. Gladly, Éowyn made ready to sleep and laid down in her blankets. A stone caught her hip, she shifted drowsily, and fell asleep.

The next day they reached the Entwash, and only a few miles further on one of the scouts returned in a hurry, gasping out his tidings. Elfhelm was silent for a few moments, considering the news and how best to respond to it, then gave a few brisk orders. Éowyn and the few others who had short bows unwrapped and strung them, and made sure their arrows were at hand. The scout was mounted on one of the spare horses, allowing his own mount to recover from hard riding.

The whole band set off west, not at the slow, careful speed which spared man and beast, but at a hard pace. Her heart thundered with trepidation and joy.

The orcs were returning from their ill business, riding the horses they had stolen and treating them cruelly with spur and whip. Despite the Riders’ training and their commander’s clear orders, Éowyn found the fight confusing and hard, for the enemy knew they could not outrun the Rohirrim this side of the river. She was grateful for the previous practice, since her body seemed to take over without conscious direction: wheeling her horse, letting fly her arrows, sparing a moment to be pleased that her hands did not shake. Her sword came smoothly from its sheath when needed, and her arm was swift and deadly. The orcs had not come in great strength, for they had expected only a few scattered herdsmen to come in pursuit, not a whole troop of well-trained Riders. The skirmish was soon over, with every orc dead, but also one Rider, Aldwulf, and two horses.

Dismounted from Windfola and helping with clearing up the aftermath, she dragged one of the dead orcs towards the pile of bodies, and at the sight, her stomach rebelled. She had just enough time to stagger aside, but as she knelt and heaved, she was bitterly disappointed with herself. Trembling, she managed to push herself to her feet, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and found Elfhelm in front of her. She flushed in shame, but he reached out and grasped her shoulder hard with his left hand, and his expression held no disappointment.

“Well done, lady,” he said, surprising her. “The first fight is never easy, and not all pass the test. There is no disgrace in this.” He caught her glance with his, and she realised he meant what he said: he was not sparing her.

“I thank you,” she replied.

“I am glad I will not have to report your death to your brother,” he said dryly. Indeed, it would be his decisions as commander here which would be criticised, if she had come to harm, not hers. He kissed her forehead briefly, and added, “If you will, Déor would be grateful for assistance.”

She nodded, he let go of her shoulder, and he stooped to the orc’s body she had left lying on the ground, freeing her from the task. Déor was rinsing wounds and binding cuts, and was not audibly grateful for her assistance. At least she did not have to suffer his caustic remarks addressed to the injured Riders, almost as though he considered it had been their faults that they had been wounded. He sent her off to gather healing herbs, describing particularly which he required, and she was glad of the time alone to recover her equanimity. The wholesome scents of crushed herbs, beneath her booted feet and in the linen bag Déor had thrust impatiently at her, soothed her agitation.

Although she had hurried over her task, by the time she returned other Riders had already raised a cairn with stones from the riverbed over their fallen comrade, his spear planted in the thin earth at the head, and his name etched deeply in runes in the straight ash wood of its shaft. There were twenty or so black horses to add to the troop, and little enough rope to use as halters, for these were as yet untrained. However, they seemed content enough to follow the other horses, staying close together. Only when everyone had mounted up again and were ready to ride (albeit not without some groans and clenching of teeth) was the tinder about the orcs set aflame. They left the smoke of the burning far behind them as they went on westwards across the plain.

As the sun sank below the mountains ahead of them, they made camp. Unlike the evening before, Elfhelm gave her a task to do, asking her to check dressings and inspect wounds, and so she had no chance to brood over the events of the day. It was only that evening when she was rolling herself in her blanket at the campsite and feeling sleep not far away, that it occurred to Éowyn that, just perhaps, Elfhelm was her friend.


	4. Solmath 3017, Edoras

Éomer strode into the hall and swept her up into a hearty embrace. She kissed him fondly and said, “We did not look to see you so soon – the messenger can only have reached you yesterday.”

“Messenger?” he said. “We set out two days since from the Westfold.”

“Théodred is with you?”

“Indeed. He has gone to meet with the King.”

They had only a little time to talk before Éomer excused himself to bathe and change his clothes to more suitable garments. There would be no feast tonight, with so little warning of their coming, but she went to the kitchens to see what better dishes might be contrived for later that day. It had been weeks since her cousin and brother had last been in Edoras, and she wondered if they would see what was becoming obvious to her.

The meal that evening was quiet, as if everyone seated at table was sunk in their own thoughts. Even Éomer, who could usually be relied upon to amuse the company, seemed more solemn. She wondered if Théodred’s serious nature were rubbing off on her brother or whether something else was troubling him. These last few months had seen them growing apart, for he had his own preoccupations and work, in which she could not join. She loved her uncle dearly, and found waiting on him little chore, except that he was leaving Meduseld less and less frequently, and she felt compelled to stay with him. She envied her brother’s freedom and his close friendship with their cousin.

The following day, she was forced to listen to a debate which should have been no debate. Théodred had wished to have his cousin made a Marshal of the Riddermark, and had made his case well enough that the King had almost been persuaded.

Except that Gríma son of Galmod had then said suavely, “My lord, Éomer is yet young and untried. Is this wise?”

Théodred said flatly, “Éomer is five-and-twenty. I was made Marshal at a younger age.”

Gríma said something deft and flattering about the King’s son being wise beyond his years, whereas the King’s _sister_ -son was rash and impetuous, but Éowyn could see annoyance in the set of his shoulders. She could not tell if her cousin was taken in by these words, but she clenched her hands into fists, hidden in the folds of her gown.

“My lord, there needs to be a Marshal set over the East-mark,” Théodred said, wearily, as if this were a point he had had to make repeatedly. “It was always your wish that he command the east as did his father.”

“What danger is there from the east?” Gríma said, softly. “You have repeatedly said that the danger is to the west, from the Dunlendings, is it not so?”

“There are Orcs raiding into the East-mark from across the River,” Éowyn found herself saying, loudly. “I have seen them myself.” Immediately she wished she had not spoken, for she had merely drawn attention to her presence, and not only Gríma thought that unseemly. The King dismissed her, and she went, cheeks flushed but head erect.

Once out of the hall, a thought occurred, and she went down into Edoras hastily, finding Elfhelm discussing with Déor which of his Riders were to be recommended as officers. He dismissed his lieutenant, and returned with her to the golden hall, listening to her tale without interrupting. At the close of it, he nodded decidedly. “I will do what I can, lady,” he said, and nodded at the door warden, who let him in. Éowyn hoped that the marshal’s intervention might spur the King into consenting to Théodred’s request, or at least give the other councillors reason to support it. The marshal, after all, was no lord nor relative of Éomer’s, and his experience would have weight, surely.

She could not settle to any work, merely pacing in her chamber while useless thoughts circled in her head. Presently, there was a tap at her door, and it was Elfhelm. “The King has given his consent,” he said shortly. “Éomer is to be made Marshal, and is to take up his household at Aldburg.”

She nodded. “Thank-you for the news. I was… concerned.”

“With reason, I think,” he replied. “Gríma does not love your brother overmuch, and he takes too much on himself. I wish I knew his mind, for I hear something in his whisperings working towards an end other than his own advancement.”

She could not bring herself to voice her own fears, since she also feared that the Marshal, not being a woman, would see them as groundless.

At the feast the next day which followed Éomer’s confirmation as Third Marshal of the Riddermark, no-one could have guessed that Gríma had been a voice of dissent, since he was speaking as though he had been fully in favour from the start. The mood was more relaxed, and the King looked happier than he had done in some time, looking fondly on his son and nephew who were laughing and singing songs, and listening to the harper telling of Éorl’s coming from the North to the plains of the Riddermark.

It was late when the Théoden retired, and Éowyn went with him to make him comfortable in his bedchamber. She had to force herself to be pleasant to Gríma and another of the King’s councillors, Tondhere, who insisted on accompanying them both, but presently Tondhere departed, grumbling under his breath. She kissed her uncle’s brow as he settled in the bed and withdrew so pointedly that the councillor had no choice but to accompany her, too: the King should have at least some time free with his own thoughts, she thought, indignantly.

She felt no desire to return to the hall, but Gríma’s soft-voiced insistence would not be gainsaid. Luckily, they met Tondhere in querulous discussion with Elfhelm, through whose habitually taciturn expression were breaking signs of impatience. At the sight of Gríma, Tondhere’s complaints trailed away into broken words, and Elfhelm said, evidently relieved, “Indeed you may make your points to the man himself. Lady Éowyn, may I bid you good night?”

Snatching at the opportunity, she said, “Marshal, a word, if you will.”

“I am at your service.”

Faced with such an unmistakeable hint, both councillors were forced to depart, though she noticed Gríma looking back at them with such an odd expression that she could not decipher its meaning, and did not want to.

“What service may I perform for you?” Elfhelm asked, after the flickering darkness of the torchlit passageway had swallowed up the other two men. “Or, maybe,” he added, surprising her by the remark, “was _that_ the service?”

He was uncomfortably observant, she thought. “I apologise, Marshal, but – I cannot – the King’s councillor—” She broke off, unable to go on further. Any confession would feel like a betrayal of her uncle.

He nodded. “Then I will bid you good night, lady.” He bowed and she made her way to her chamber.


	5. Afterlithe 3018, Edoras

Flax was being harvested in the fields below Edoras as it had been for years, despite the rumours of war and invasion. Nearly everyone in the Folde was in the field, if they could be spared, pulling plants so that they could begin the long process of retting, and Éowyn was no exception. It was late afternoon when a girl came running from the courts with a message, that she was to come up at once, for a visitor was come from the east.

Wondering very much at this, she quitted her station and headed back to the hall, brushing her gown as she went, for flax straw was clinging to the cloth and she did not want to appear too untidy. Within the hall was a tall, dark-haired, proud-looking man, whose rich clothes were nevertheless practical for a long journey. He spoke only a few words of Rohirric, but his Westron was understandable, if formal. She realised it was the first time she had heard anything but her own language spoken in months.

“I am travelling north on an urgent errand,” he was saying as she entered in, “and would beg a bed for the night, and stabling for my horse.”

King Théoden looked at the traveller rather sourly. “It must be an urgent errand indeed which takes you, Steward’s son, from your duties in the east.” His sardonic tone might almost have been Wormtongue’s, implying that his guest was a coward fleeing from real danger. She felt shame run through her – this man was a son of their greatest ally and ought not to be insulted so, least of all by the King, who should be above such pettiness.

The visitor – was it Boromir or Faramir? she wondered – laid a hand on what would have been a sword hilt had he not left his weapon at the door, and flushed angrily. “As to that,” he said, commanding his voice and annoyance, “the future will show, I doubt not.”

Éowyn quitted the hall discreetly, ordered the servants to prepare a guest-house for the visitor, and to stable his horse, then returned in time to hear her uncle begrudgingly allow the Steward’s son to stay. She went to the guest and bade him refresh himself; directed him to the clean and garnished rooms; appreciated his courteous thanks. It was, to her surprise, the elder of the two brothers making this journey. He would not say where he was going, except to say that he expected to reach the Hornburg on the morrow, and would gladly take any messages to her kinfolk there. She was loth to ask questions which might seem overly inquisitive, and merely asked him to remember her to her cousin.

At the evening meal, she could not help freezing in shame at the way the king and his councillors addressed the guest. Every muscle seemed rigid and unresponsive, even those of her throat, so that she could not speak and could barely swallow the food which had no savour. Her hand tightened on her knife until her fingers went white, and she had to exercise such self-control not to stab the point of it through the table. Could she have but spared attention to Boromir’s conversation, she might have appreciated how skilfully he spoke, not showing any anger at being questioned, but always turning the conversation towards matters in the Riddermark, until only Wormtongue, ever suspicious, occasionally darted with quick words in an attempt to disconcert.

Elfhelm attempted to turn the conversation by asking about the sudden attack on Osgiliath, of which they had had news only two days before. Boromir sighed sadly. “We could have withstood the men of the Haradrim and the Easterlings with whom Sauron has allied himself, for, thought outnumbered, the might of Gondor is still great. They came suddenly out of the East, with barely any warning. But a power was there that we had not felt before. Some said it was like a great black horseman, a dark shadow against the moon. Fear fell on our boldest, and man and horse fled before him in terror. Only a small company came back, and held the last bridge across the River at Osgiliath: until it was cast down behind us.”

There was silence in the hall, as dread seemed to fall on it, and the darkness outside pressed hard against the bright walls of Meduseld. Éowyn shuddered.

“You were in that company?” Elfhelm asked.

“Indeed, and of it only four were saved by swimming: myself and my brother, and two others.”

“Your pardon, lord,” Elfhelm said, clearly shocked by the news. “We had no notion that the attack had been so devastating.”

“War is coming, without doubt. Mount Doom smokes again. Gondor will have need of all her allies.” Boromir did not need to point out that the Rohirrim were Gondor’s chief allies and would be called upon when needed, for they all knew that.

Not even Gríma had much to say to that, apparently subdued or shocked by Boromir’s tale into silence.

Much to Éowyn’s relief, Boromir excused himself early, saying that he should be away by first light, and that allowed her to rise herself and ensure that their guest had what he required. She ordered that his horse and food be brought for him on the morrow, and went to her own room.

Once, long ago it seemed, she might have wept, but now the tears seemed frozen inside her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Éomer implies in chapter 2 of _The Two Towers_ that he knows of Boromir’s dream and his quest, and states that the Rohirrim gave him a horse. Since I don’t think that Boromir would have spoken openly of his errand in Edoras, and particularly not to Éowyn, I have assumed that he took advice (and a horse) from Théodred in the Westfold a day later, and that Théodred spoke to Éomer about it later.
> 
> Boromir’s account here of the destruction of Osgiliath is taken almost verbatim from chapter 14 of _The Fellowship of the Ring_.


	6. Foreyule 3018, Edoras

Everything had seemed to go wrong in Rohan since the coming of Gandalf Greyhame, and his equally sudden departure with the horse Shadowfax, but a few months since. The harvest had been scanty, more horses had been carried off in the east so that the horse-herders in the Eastemnet had withdrawn further west, leaving vast grazing lands empty. Riders had fallen in skirmishes with Dunlendings and increasingly bolder Orcs. The King had fallen into a profound lethargy, barely having enough energy to rise and dress each day, let alone go out, or ride. He seemed ancient beyond his years, stooped and shrunken. He would not listen to councillors other than Gríma, and even his beloved son, on the occasions when he returned to Edoras from the West-mark, could wrest from him no policy which would attack the wizard Saruman in the tower of Orthanc. For Saruman was harrying the borders of Rohan with Orcs and wolf-riders, and encouraging the Dunlendings to leave Dunland in hopes of defeating their ancient foes. There was always a smoke and fume about Orthanc these days. Yet despite that, no war had been declared, and Théodred could only expend his men in defence.

Éomer, now away in the East-mark, returned seldom to the golden hall, for he could not abide Gríma nor his habit of speaking for the King, and more than once had threatened violence, though had been restrained.

Éowyn felt enwrapped by binding shrouds of despair: for all her position, she could not leave her uncle, and yet serving him seemed to be another disgrace. Still, every morning, she rose and faced the sun, and did her duty, clinging to it with all the force of her will. For if she forsook that, what would be left of her?

Two days before Yule, the usual feast was being prepared, despite the poor harvest. A bullock and several sheep had been slaughtered a few days before and were ready for the long roasting. Éowyn was expecting her cousin and brother to arrive from west and east respectively that day, along with men of their éoreds: thankfully she had not been put to the task of housing them all, for most would stay the brief festival period in the garrison under Elfhelm’s direction.

It was at the feast itself that Éomer spoke of reinforcing the defence of the Westfold with his own men, and Gríma replied, softly, “Is the King’s house to be left thus defenceless against the threat from the East?”

Éomer clenched his hands into fists, and did not respond, trying to moderate his anger. After a few moments, he spoke calmly, saying, “The men of Edoras under the marshal Elfhelm’s command are as capable of the task as my men. My lord,” he added, addressing the King directly, “command me and I will stay, of course, but the West-mark needs more men.”

Théoden lifted his eyes briefly and wearily. “It is as Gríma says,” he said. “He speaks my will in this, as in everything.”

Éowyn saw Théodred and Éomer exchange glances in which anger, resentment and fear were clearly visible to her, though neither protested the king’s statement. The councillor’s ascendency over the king was complete; no commands would be made that did not come from Wormtongue’s crooked mouth.

Later, after the feasting and drinking had finally drawn to a close, the hall emptied until it lay dark and silent. The fire had died down, glowing only faintly in the hearth. A gleam of moonlight shone through the windows beneath the eaves, catching a gleaming tile beneath disarranged rushes. Éowyn traced with a finger the deep carving on one of the pillars which held up the great roof, and tried not to think of what would become of them. War would come, and her people would die, for lack of leadership. It would have been easier to despise her uncle if he had been a man like his grandfather, King Fengel, who was not remembered with love in the Mark. But she – and her brother, and her cousin, and his men – loved him, and their love and pity restrained them, and their enemies took advantage of that.

Low voices in urgent discussion came to her; her brother and Elfhelm. “If I am commanded to stay,” Éomer was saying, “then you must go with the Second Marshal into the West-mark and take my place.”

“The King has not commanded me so,” Elfhelm responded, quietly, and without much expression.

“Indeed, and will not, I guess,” Éomer said, wryly. “So I must. You must know that I do not say this lightly, Elfhelm, for I hold my obedience to the King as an oath, but I could not rest here without knowing that some further help was given to the beleaguered folk of the west. In truth I do not think that the King, if he truly understood the importance of our defence there, would gainsay me.”

There was a long silence, and although Éowyn could not see either man, she could imagine in her mind’s eye. Éomer would be standing, impatiently awaiting the marshal’s reply; Elfhelm would be considering in silence, his face no guide to the thoughts within. She should not attend, like a curious child listening at doors for words they would not understand. But she could not bring herself to leave.

“I do not think so, either,” Elfhelm said, at last. “I will go as you command, my lord, and my men with me. But I do not go willingly, and not without your word that you will guard this hall and the King as I would.”

“Of course you have my word!” Her brother sounded almost offended that the other would ask this of him. “After all, the King is my uncle, and my sister, too, dwells here. Do you not think I would die before letting anything harm them both?”

“The King will require your protection,” Elfhelm said dryly, “since he has not held a sword in many months, and grows weak; but the lady Éowyn needs no man’s protection from foes; except perhaps from a more insidious threat which you cannot counter by sword or spear.”

She blanched. It had been bad enough experiencing the looks and soft words and shuddering beneath them, without realising that other people had seen them, too, and drawn their own conclusions.

There was a brief silence, before Éomer said, sternly, “Speak more plainly, if you will.”

Elfhelm’s voice held a tone of slight disbelief that he was being asked this, as if her brother ought to have known – and indeed he ought, she thought, suddenly. “Why, from the longing glances of Gríma Wormtongue. And since he is clever and makes nothing overt, how can she counter that and yet remain courteous as duty bids her?” There was a brief pause, as if Éomer had looked a question, for Elfhelm replied, “Watch him when she is nearby, and you will see that for yourself.”

There was another pause, and then Éomer bid the other man good night, and went out of the hall to the terrace. A cold breath of air swept in as the door opened and shut behind him, and maybe the shadows, leaping in that gust, betrayed her presence. A moment later, the marshal was beside her, and all she could see was his sharp profile against the glowing remnants of the Yule fire, and the gleam of a bronze brooch on the shoulder of his tunic.

“I take it you heard our speech together, lady,” he said, gently. “I am sorry I spoke so plainly.”

She wanted to be angry with him, and yet how could she, when he clearly felt only concern for her? “I wish you had not,” she said, resignedly, when she meant she wished he had not felt it necessary to do so. “I wish often that I were Dernhelm as I pretended.”

“I often wish you were, too, since you are more capable a soldier than many under my command,” he said wryly.

She laughed shortly, and said, “I cannot believe you mean that sincerely, but I thank you nonetheless, Marshal.”

“You ought to know by now, lady, that I do not hide my thoughts in words.” He sounded almost exasperated. “Why should you doubt me? You are strong and capable, skilled with blade and bow, and have proved yourself in battle more than once.”

She bowed her head, moved by the tribute from a man she respected.

Giving way, however briefly, to emotion had broken her self-control, and now the tears of frustration and despair would form in her eyes, do what she would to blink them away. She wiped her cheeks brusquely, now not caring if he saw. He bent his head, frowning, and she could not bear to see the expression of solicitude on his face. She made only one step, but not to turn away to go to her own chamber, and instead laid her head against his shoulder, as if he were her cousin, and she were a child again.

For a moment he stood still and startled, then she felt his hand lightly stroke her hair. They stood quietly in the dark, and she wept, and yet felt comforted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Appendices D and F of _Lord of the Rings_ don’t make it clear whether the Rohirrim used the same calendar as was in use in the Shire, but imply that there were a lot of correspondences linguistically. So I have assumed that the Rohirrim celebrated Yule in a similar manner.


	7. Rethe 3019, Dunharrow

Éowyn rose from her bed in Dúnhere’s hall and broke her fast with the lord of Harrowdale and his family. Now that the folk of Edoras and the Folde had been gathered to the refuge in the hills, and minor differences and quarrels had been smoothed out, there seemed even less for her to do. With Aragorn’s departure the previous day, a great despair had fallen on her. Every Rider save her now had the chance for honour and glory in battle, or had already defended the realm at the Hornburg. She put on her mail corselet and sword that her uncle had given to her only seven days earlier, and went outside into the cold morning, feeling unable to breathe inside.

She looked out, wondering when the king would come, for Aragorn had warned that he and his company would arrive late that day. At least that was something she could undertake, and issued orders for the preparation of tents for the king and the marshals accompanying him. Later that afternoon she checked through the arms brought from Edoras and commanded smiths to mend gear where necessary.

Towards sunset, she went to the horse lines and sought her own horse, grey Windfola. She did not need much grooming, for her coat shone, but Éowyn needed some task to keep her hands busy and replaited the mane where some of the braids were coming undone. Despite her strong words to herself, she could not help weeping, hiding her face in Windfola’s warm neck. All her hopes of recovering her honour lay in dust, and she would not admit to herself how much it had hurt to be denied the chance through mere courtesy; as if she were still a mere belonging; who needed her uncle’s permission to fight and die.

Presently, she recovered herself, wiped her eyes savagely, and went on with her task. Not long afterwards, a young lad came to her and said, “My lady, the scouts report the king is nigh. Marshal Elfhelm asks that you go to greet him.”

She nodded, gave her horse a last caress, and followed the boy out onto the heath where the tents were pitched. He departed on another errand, and she checked the pavilion: all was ready.

Night was falling when the king and his company made their way up the dale. She greeted them, embraced her brother and was glad to see with her own eyes that he had taken no hurt from the battle in the Hornburg. Oh, but she wished she had been there! To earn a share in that glory and wipe away some of the stain of dishonour. At the evening meal, only she and Éomer and Dúnhere sat with the king, until the king’s esquire was summoned. She looked at him with wonder: so small in stature he was, as a child of eight or nine summers, and yet his face and expression was no child’s. She understood now Aragorn’s request to her, and determined that she would assist him, particularly when the king made clear that, despite his wishes, Meriadoc could not go with Théoden to Mundburg.

She lay awake long that night, her impatience and frustration fretting over plans and wondering what she might do. She saw one thing clearly, that she could not simply leave with the host, abandoning her charge, much though that tempted her. But nearly every man whom she’d trust to lead the people in her place was to ride east.

At the dull dawn under heavy cloud, she rose and dressed and went down to the vale and sought out Elfhelm. She had known the marshal for a little more than seven years, since he had been for that time in charge of the garrison at Edoras, and she liked and trusted him, which was by no means the case for everyone else there. Although always courteous, he rarely acknowledged her particularly as a woman, which she appreciated. She had often thought that his clear eyes saw a great deal more than he ever spoke of: more than her brother did, for Éomer was more often away in the East-mark than he was in Edoras, particularly in the last couple of years. Her brother had not had to see Théoden’s continuous degradation nor suffer the lingering glances of Wormtongue, whereas Elfhelm had seen these things daily.

“I wish,” she said, “to ride with the king when he goes out today. I cannot stay here, to wither in my cage and never see true honour.” She paused, and went on, desperately trying to explain to him why it was so vital she go, abandoning the responsibilities so suddenly thrust upon her, “When Gandalf Greyhame came to Edoras, and healed the king, it felt for the first time in a long age that a strong wind was blowing through the hall, sweeping away the cobwebs of shame and dishonour – and so it has, for everyone else. But the webs of dishonour have wrapped me about still more closely. I am still enmeshed in them, Elfhelm, unable to break free, and slowly suffocating.”

As usual, his face showed little expression, neither of sympathy nor disapproval, nor even of impatience to return to the duties she had interrupted. He regarded her sternly for some while. He sighed. “I see you cannot. In your place, lady, I might seek to do the same.”

Relief flooded her, that she had not had to beg him, so that she had to command her voice. “Whom would you suggest as one to take my place?”

Elfhelm considered this. He had had little to do with folk other than Riders, but over the last few days might have seen, in the muster and in the retreat to Dunharrow who was obeyed, who was asked for advice, and who had dealt with those quarrels and disagreements before they had come to his ears or hers. “Erkenbrand can, I think, be ill-spared from the Westfold, else I would suggest you send to him in the Hornburg. But here there is Dúnhere’s lady, Brodwyn. She is familiar with Harrowdale and she is respected and loved by many. The rest will come to do so.”

Éowyn looked at him with interest, that his first suggestion was a woman, not one of the older men left behind. “Very well. I will speak with her.”

He nodded, then said, “You may ride in my _éored_ , lady. There are not a few Riders in it who will remember sparring with Dernhelm in the lists. You must make haste if you are to be ready to ride this morning with the muster – I will see to Windfola for you.”

She nodded briskly. “I thank you, Marshal. For this, and for everything else.”

He bowed, and they parted. Éowyn hurried up the valley to request audience with Lady Brodwyn. It was clear that the older woman had little understanding of what was driving her to do this, but she was willing to take on the responsibility. Éowyn drafted a letter of authorisation, should it be needed, and thanked her again.

After the meeting with the king and her brother, and the errand-riders of Gondor, she took Meriadoc the halfling aside, showing him the gear of war that had been found for him. Now that she was going with the rest to Mundburg she had decided that, if he still wished it, she would take him with her on Windfola – between them both they would not trouble her steed. She had great fellow-feeling for his desire to follow the king, both of them considered too weak, too small, to ride with the host.

She braided her hair tightly as the Riders did, dressed herself in full gear of war, glad that she had taken the advice given so long ago, packed her saddlebags efficiently, and found Windfola in the lines saddled and bridled as the marshal had promised. She loaded up her bags and weapons, spoke briefly to the horse, and mounted up. As the lines were forming, the king’s glance skimmed past her, seeing just another young Rider, and she felt herself steeled. Before the ride began, the king proclaimed Elfhelm a Marshal of the Riddermark – which clearly surprised him, though he knelt and made the oath of loyalty afresh with a clear voice.

Éomer led the first _éored_ , the King’s Company. She fell in with the other riders of Elfhelm’s _éored_ , ahead of the rest of the East-mark muster; the West-mark muster followed the command of Grimbold. So the ride began, and she wondered, as they went north-east in the mirk of Mordor, how her death would come at the end of the journey. At last she had the chance to defend the king and die in his service, yet she could not feel glad. Could not feel anything much, least of all hope that their riding would lead to any victory.

But at least they could hold back the darkness for a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe that Éowyn would just abandon her people and her duty to ride to war, and so I propose this alternative.
> 
> Thank-you for reading!


End file.
